Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

All stories start with ‘once upon a time,’ or something along those lines, but not all start at a place that can be called the ‘beginning’.

What even is a beginning, really?

The word is defined as “the first part or earliest stage of something,” but that can still be interpreted in many different ways. Some could say that it applies to any way that a story begins, the part at which a bard or storyteller would start when they told it. Some like to think otherwise, preferring to keep the idea that a beginning is almost sacred. They say that it is a point in time in which your life changes course drastically, in which your fate is picked apart and woven anew. Those kinds of beginnings, especially those which could be considered disturbing or even traumatic, are often forgotten, sometimes intentionally, and individuals must pick up the pieces themselves. Start from scratch. Begin anew.

Ink knew this better than most, and it had become a habit for him to ponder on the subject for longer than he probably should.

It wasn’t something he exactly liked to think about. Ruminating on a past like his wasn’t the best way one could spend their time. But every time he grew bored, which was often, his mind would drift back to the place that he called his ‘beginning’, and then new memories would surface and he would try to figure out what it all meant, and before he knew it, he was stuck again.

And it wasn’t even like there was nothing else he could do! Even though he didn’t have anyone to talk to or mess with, he had hobbies he could immerse himself in, responsibilities to take care of. He could draw, or make something new, or watch the worlds like they were merely daydreams, or find some deviance in a script to take care of. It was just that, well, doing the same thing for a long time was almost unbearable for him, unless he was in what he liked to call Focus Mode. And that only came at the worst possible moments, like when he was supposed to be doing something important. It was almost like his nonexistent brain was trying to keep him away from the things that really mattered, forcing him to waste his time in a pile of art supplies, canned drinks and tears.

But it never came when he was truly bored, which was when he liked to think about things. So he abandoned his tasks to fall down the same rabbit hole over and over, without any sign of stopping.

He knew that his first memory wasn’t his true beginning. That had been long forgotten. Whatever it was, he didn’t think he even wanted to know. You didn’t just show up like he did without a SOUL for no reason, and the reasons tended to range from depressing to utterly mind-crushing. So instead of that, he always tended to go back to his first memory, which happened to be one of total emptiness.

Ink had never liked empty things. A previously emotionless and aimless existence tended to do that to you. But back then he didn’t have the capacity to like or dislike anything. Nor did he have the capacity to feel whatsoever. Some other beings who lacked a SOUL managed to get by pretty normally, maybe except for a lack of love or a few sadistic tendencies. Or both, that was pretty common. Take Flowey - an odd little fellow in most universes, often pretty murdery, but sometimes he could be nice or even lovable. Ink on the other hand? He didn’t have anything. Not even the despair and fear that would later take hold of him when confronted with emptiness was present in his mind. He was existing, not living, with no feelings, no goals, and no past.

It was almost as if one minute he was not there, and the next he simply was. Like he had just appeared, however nonsensical it may sound. The only being in an endless white void, without SOUL nor purpose.

So he sat there, doing nothing but waiting. What could he do? Why was he even there? What was he? He had a faint idea that he should feel perplexed by it, whatever that meant. But he couldn’t. He couldn’t feel anything, nor did he know what having feelings was like. Time, if it even existed, went by. Nothing changed. He waited, eyes never growing heavy.

He was barely able to distinguish himself from his surroundings back then. His bones had no colour except for the strange black markings on his ribs and limbs. One day he would learn to hate those marks, to cover them up at all costs and try not to remind himself of how empty he truly was. He would bury himself under layers of clothing that he refused to remove even in the hottest weather and only wash himself in the dark so he didn’t have to look at his body, trying to hide as much as he could from those around him. But, as you know by now, back then he couldn’t feel anything. So hating them was off the menu for now.

He waited more.

The lines between himself and his environment blurred even further. The feeling that he didn’t exist grew and grew, until he was sure that his sentience was some kind of fluke, that some day he would close his eyes and never open them again and not even be aware of it. It was a comforting thought, or so he supposed. Maybe it had already happened, and he was stuck in some kind of dream. It felt like a dream. He wasn’t sure how he knew what dreams were, he had never had one himself to his knowledge. Still, he couldn’t help but let his barren mind drift to dreams. It was the best way he could make sense of his world at the time.

He waited more.

And more.

And more.

And then, sudden as the birth of his consciousness, things changed.

Someone must have taken pity on him. Perhaps it was one of the Creators, both empathising with his situation and realising the need for a loyal servant. Or perhaps it was nothing more than an experiment, maybe even a whim or an impulse. Ink could be impulsive himself, so it would make sense if the beings that gave him this kindness were similar. Whatever it was, and whatever the motive, the ceaseless white of his home was broken at last by light.

He stared upwards as the light approached, and was suddenly flooded with bright yellow paint.

How did he know what ‘yellow’ was, or even ‘paint’? He did not know, just as he didn’t know why he knew what dreams were. It was like he was born with the words, the things he would need to understand programmed into his brain. Still, he couldn’t help but wonder why.

The unknown was like that, he supposed. Mysterious enough to elicit curiosity but never give an answers, a tantalising reality just out of his grasp. The harder he thought, the less he knew, and it was made even worse when more questions arose. He had heard of situations like his, filled to the brim with questions unanswered. Sometimes they were called ‘torture’. The people that said that clearly didn’t know anything about real torture.

Where was he?

Oh, right. Paint.

It was warm, in more ways than one. The colour itself, while almost blindingly bright, had a quality to it that made him want to immerse himself fully in it. There was also a sense of physical warmth, a warm glow that infiltrated his entire being. He would later suspect that this experience was what triggered his love for long baths.

It felt reassuring, and then more than that. Powerful, light but overwhelming all at once. It was strange, to say the least. He stretched out his arms, hoping to gather more of the colour. Maybe if he tried hard enough he could become it. And that’s when the third kinds of warmth kicked in.

The colour seeped into his mind, and before he knew it his insides were tingling and his lips were curling into a smile. It shifted, once, twice, more times than he could count. Disgust. Sadness. Rage! Plenitude! Laziness! Euphoria! A full rainbow in the once-barren world.

Suddenly, he felt happy.

Suddenly, he felt.

His eyes were heavy with tears, but he didn’t care. He could feel! Like a real person, a person with a SOUL! The joy mixed with excitement and more hope, and for the first time ever, he laughed.

It didn’t last long at first. The colours would come randomly, and every time they left, he would feel himself fading, all of the personality he had built up decaying into nothing until he was empty again. But those brief moments where he had awareness and emotion and life, well, he treasured them more than anything. His abilities flourished as he learnt to control the colours around him, conjuring up tools and clothes and even life from nothing. He could announce his presence to the void with a swarm of butterflies, content at first with the knowledge that the only true audience he would ever have was himself, but then starting to long for more.

So he found a distraction. Whenever the colours came, he would collect them in vials of his own design. After some internal debating, he decided that the best way to carry them would be to construct a sash to hold them, perhaps even with pockets for his pencils and his brush. The vials allowed him to take a little whenever he felt himself start to fade, to keep himself alive. In a way, it let him pretend that he had a SOUL.

And so, with his newfound stability, he began the task of turning his empty environment into a paradise, filled with colour and vibrancy and life.

His first attempts failed. Damns broke, buildings crumbled, colours bled into each other to create an uncoordinated mess. It was inevitable - failure was only the first step. So he just shook it off and tried again, refining his technique and designs every time. And gradually it started to pay off. He watched with delighted eyes as the once-blank space was transformed into a world of his creation, rejoicing in the fact that he could do this all by himself, without the aid of others.

Still, he knew that he could do more if he was given the chance. Life was better now, but it could still be more. His gift couldn’t be a simple accident. Surely there was more to life than this. Surely he had some other purpose than sitting in his little dimension by himself.

He was right.

The discovery that his colours came straight from the creativity that flowed from a whole goddamn Multiverse was honestly pretty overwhelming. Anyone would be a little starstruck if they had gone from a place of total nothingness to being aware of literally everything in existence, after all. He could see so much, so many universes and timelines and individual lives. All following their scripts, whether they be grand or mundane, dictated by the creators of all. Scripts printed on the surface of his bones, forming intricate patterns and swirls that he would have found beautiful if it weren’t for the fact that they reminded him of who he once was, of who he was when he was empty. Perhaps that was what he still was. Empty.

Or maybe it was the opposite. Maybe he was the only one who was truly living.

Deep down he knew that no one else in the Multiverse would be like him. Sure, the fact that he techincally wasn’t alone was somewhat reassuring, but they weren’t really, well, ‘people’. At least not in his eyes. They were mere characters, with predetermined fates and feelings, and no trace of free will. And that made him feel more alone than ever. He was the only one who was truly real. He would probably never have someone who could really understand him. Someone free from fate like him.

He didn’t want to be alone!

He didn’t want to be forgotten again!

So, as always, he distracted himself.

He dedicated himself to the Multiverse and its creators. He promised that he would do everything in his power to protect each universe, and keep it as intended, never interfering. He wasn’t sure if there could be any external vandals or even threats, but just to make sure, he promised to fight them as well, while honouring each and every event and character as part of the Multiversal order. In this way, he could ensure that his emotions would still flow in a steady supply. And he could ignore the fact that he was the only one, burying the loneliness under duty and power.

The Doodle Sphere, for that was what he had named his world, was blessed with the addition of portals to every possible timeline in the form of paint, which he could travel through at will, if he even needed to go in the first place. His ability to travel through liquids was one of his favourites. The sensation of it was weird, but nice, and his enjoyment of it might have been another byproduct of his first experience with colour. But, strangely, he didn’t use it often at first. He had little need to. Most of the time he was content to simply watch the AUs (Alternate Universes - he often prided himself on coming up with the term) as their events unfurled. There was less chance that he would accidentally interfere that way. The discovery that he could observe any universe at will just by willing it happen was nothing less than thrilling, and even that was an understatement. Power by itself was not a new sensation for him, but something of this calibre was exciting indeed.

And, at last, he gave himself a name: Ink.

He wrote the word in swirling letters on his scarf, admiring the way the letters looked and sounded, making sure he wouldn’t forget it. He already knew that his memory wasn’t the best, and would later come to know that it was in fact one of his worst attributes. It would get him into trouble on numerous occasions, some worse than others. His own name, however, was clearly something worth remembering - forgetting it would be far too embarrassing. It wasn’t difficult for him to come up with it. In fact, he wasn’t even searching for a name in the first place. The word materialised inside his head, and he knew from the start that it would be the perfect name for someone like himself. The little mark on his cheek looked similar to an ink splatter, not the mention the fact that the substance literally ran through his blood, although it would probably be more accurate to say that it was his blood.

Wait. He vomited up ink whenever he was too happy or anxious or angry, right? Didn’t that mean he was literally vomiting his own blood? How interesting! He’d ask one of those little scientist characters if he ever got the chance to outside of a scripted setting. If it wasn’t too morbid.

Ink was a poor judge of morbidity. Blood and gore and all types of dark material was nothing new to him, and he did not see why everyone else was so finely tuned to it. From what he had seen in the AUs, being so desensitised from it was often seen as a sign of some kind of trauma, but that didn’t seem right. Sure, he had figured out pretty early on that he was most probably traumatised in some unknown way, but he didn’t think it would have to do with any violence or body horror. It was just natural to him, probably a part of the insatiable curiosity that had been the first of his emotions to take precendence over the others as soon as he managed to get a proper balance of colours. Morbid things were interesting. Like horror movies! Or genocide runs! Those quickly became some of Ink’s favourite timelines to watch. The adrenaline that came with observing them was far too addictive for his own good.

But oh well. He would simply ignore it, file it away as one of his many oddities, perhaps return to ponder on it every once in a while. It wasn’t as important as his newfound duty.

Life, emotion, a purpose, a name. Gifts that might have seemed trivial to others, but that meant the world to him. In the times when he would dwell on his beginning for a little too long, he would inevitably come to its end, and his mouth would immediately twist into a grin, and he would hope that his sense of wonder at his existence would never fade. It was one of the only good parts about his constantly wondering, and the reason why it was so addictive to do so. Every time, he would briefly forget about what came before, lost in the joy of his newfound life, and the cycle would repeat, again and again and again. He would have gone on repeating the cycle for eternity, if it weren’t for the intervention of a certain someone.

Someone whom he would learn to hold close, despite both of their flaws creating rifts in their relationship ever so often, some bigger than others. Someone whom he would meet sooner than he would have thought. Eventually, he would forget what it was even like to exist without that someone. And then more people would come, and he would fight and laugh with them as well, and one day he would realise that maybe he wasn’t as alone as he thought. But we know much more than he does, we the storytellers and the audience. So for now, let us leave him laying on the grass with closed eyes, watching the worlds within his mind come alive.

The beginning is over. Now our tale starts for real.

Chapter Text

The first of the many changes that would shape Ink’s lifetime and role in the Multiverse occurred not long after his discovery of his true calling. Like all events that cause a person’s life to shoot in another direction, it wasn’t entirely unexpected, but so sudden that it might as well have been.

Ink could certaintly be a little naive at times, but he wasn’t naive enough to believe that there would never be any sort of real challenge for him. He knew that someday, a bigger threat to the Multiverse than the displaced or misguided humans he dealt with most of the time would emerge. Sure, he was pretty confident that he was the only one existing outside the scripts, but he suspected that something might happen someday. He just wasn’t prepared for what that threat would be. And who could blame him? There wasn’t any way of predicting what it could be, no way of preparing for possible attacks if he didn’t know what they were. Very few could prepare for such a thing.

So when the first few AUs crumbled, he was confused.

It was disturbing for them to be disappearing so suddenly. Universes weren’t supposed to just fall apart on their own accord. Of course, there were those that were constructed poorly, or those abandoned by their creators (he ignored the cold shiver that always manifested when he thought about that idea), but this many? In such quick succession? Something clearly wasn’t right.

But whatever it was, it just kept on happening, with no sign of stopping. Every time he fell asleep or left his Doodle Sphere or stopped paying attention, he would find the remains of yet another universe at his feet. Honestly, it was pretty terrifying.

He really hoped it wasn’t the creators abandoning them all at once. If that was the case, he wouldn’t be useful to them anymore, and then he wouldn’t get his colours anymore, and he would be empty again and unable to feel or think or even comprehend the sheer horror that was being alone and forgotten and oh stars what if it was happening right now and he was already fading away and his life would be over almost as soon as it began and-

Ink forced himself to breathe. Now wasn’t the time to spiral.

Okay. The problem. AUs disappearing. He needed to fix it.

After a few hours of figuring out a plan, he decided to sit and wait for the next disturbance, so he could address it as soon as it happened and get to the bottom of the mystery. Which was a lot harder than it sounded. You see, Ink loathed sitting still. He also loathed focusing on something he didn’t want to focus on. And unfortunately, this task combined both of these things.

The result? The most tiresome, monotonous, boring ordeal he had ever forcd himself to partake in.

Everything was just so dull! There were so many other things that he could be doing, and he almost left his task a few times to go and do something more interesting, but he couldn’t. The fate of the Multiverse could depend on it, not to mention his own fate. He sat, and waited, and waited some more, hoping for the tedious ordeal to be over soon.

The worst part was that it reminded him of his former self, the blank one who sat and waited for something to happen before the colours came, and now he was dangerously close to either spiralling again or throwing himself back into his memories. Both of which would distract him far too much, and would inevitably end with him become distressed and possibly throwing up or bursting into tears. That would most definitely not be fun, and would also hinder his task, meaning that this destruction of AUs would jsut go on for longer. Great!

After waiting for what felt like days, he was on the verge of giving up and trying again some other time. After all, if nothing had happened for this long, maybe it had stopped. Maybe he wouldn’t even have to worry about it again. Stars, he hoped that was the case. That would be so much more convenient.

Then he saw it.

One of the universes was glitching.

Ink stared at it for a while, watching as it distorted more and more, and then remembered that he should probably take some action. It looked like a sort of error in the very code of the Multiverse, as if the code was falling apart.

He grabbed his brush and dived into the broken bucket of paint, already planning on what his first move would be when he arrived. He would check the scene, look for people who could give him clues, maybe observe the code a little closer, scan over it for bugs. Should be relatively easy, right? And even if it wasn’t, he was always up for something new.

Of course, it wasn’t easy. It wasn’t easy at all.

As soon as Ink opened his eyes, he froze.

The AU was gone.

Everything was blank, terrifyingly so, and colder than anything Ink had ever experienced. A familiar nausea rose in his throat and he had just enough self control to not let it spill out of his mouth like it normally would.

Now was not the time to be sick. Something dangerous could still be here.

The whole place was an endless white, except for a few spots of blue in the distance. Oh, thank the stars. If it had been completely empty, Ink wasn’t sure how he’d deal with things, or even find the strength to move.

Seeking refuge from the emptiness, he sprinted towards the blue. Upon further inspection, it turned out to be…

Strings? Wires? Some kind of sharp, electric blue stringy things.

They tangled together, weaving a web of azure that dripped with blood and dust. The stench was awful but it didn’t exactly bother Ink. After all, he was used to it. It wasn’t like he had never seen people dying before. In fact, he found death pretty intriguing.

It was a concept he found hard to define, especially in regards to himself. Most people seemed to define death as the moment a SOUL was broken, but that idea had quite a few noticeable flaws. Ink lacked a SOUL and he still considered himself to be alive.

Was he alive?

That was the slightly scarier part, considering his own state of being. Most of the time he just settled with saying that he was in some in-between state, that his bottled emotions were keeping him as alive as he could be, and going numb was his equivalent of dying, even if that made him seem like some kind of drug-addicted zombie.

Back to the point. Death.

It was fascinating, how everyone he met cling on to their life so strongly. Even he, the reckless, all-seeing protector, often feared that one day his supply of colours would run dry. He had quickly realised that fear was one of his driving forces, whether he liked it or not, so he figured that the best way to deal with it was to learn more. It was such a shame he couldn’t talk about it with anyone, share his fears and ideas and whatnot.

Strangely, however, he never found himself fearing the physical aspects of death. Perhaps it was an extension of his curiosity surrounding blood and gore, perhaps it was because he did not feel pain like the others, whatever the reason for that might be. He also knew that he wasn’t alone in that respect - he had observed countless others cheering over brutal games and shows and films, gladiators and executions, and come to the conclusion that everyone must be at least a little sadistic at heart, enough for the adrenaline to rush whenever the prospect of violence emerged. He watched as they turned to their bloody entertainment, wondering if they would react in a similar way if they saw the bodies pile up in real life as they did on a screen or in the amphitheatre, and felt no fear.

Still, the spectacle of gore before him surpassed what he had seen previously. It was like every inhabitant of the place had been killed in one spot, and their bodies had been hung until all the blood leaked out. Which was a pretty plausible theory, considering the amount of dust. If the victims were human, the number of bodies would have been immense. Ink had to admit, it was kind of impressive.

A bright red human SOUL shone from within it, the crown jewel of this tapestry of suffering. Ah, that must have belonged to the human of the world. So now there was no possibility of a reset to restore it. Brilliant.

In the middle of this strange web stood a figure.

He was tall, with black bones that faded into red and yellow on his arms and legs hands, and his whole form seemed to flicker like a hacked computer, pixels appearing and diappearing randomly and buzzing around him like a swarm of angry hornets. The heavy sound of his breathing was also glitched, and Ink couldn’t help but wonder what exactly had happened to this person to make him like this. Nothing good, that was for sure. His frame was weak, the bones that were showing appearing thin and brittle, but his animalstic stance and the dust and blood that covered his clothes and hands gave him a frighteningly imposing air. His clothes, which once could have been the attire of your common or garden Sans, were so mismatched in colour that it would have given Ink a headache if he could actually feel pain.

In short, he looked weird. Stunningly weird.

Ink’s thoughts raced faster than he could keep up with, his whole being flooded with excitement.

Finally, some proper entertainment.

FINALLY!

He had wanted something like this for so damn long. Like, not the whole universes-perpetually-dying part of it, but the novelty, the challenge, the whole prospect of someone else out there like him that he could clash with and talk to and maybe get to know a little bit. And now here that person was, standing right in front of him. It didn’t seem like he had noticed him yet, focusing instead on admiring his handiwork, but that just gave Ink more time to think about what kind of first impression he should make.

After some thought about how to appear cool, collected, and slightly threatening, Ink decided to lean against his brush, making sure never to look directly at the stranger before him, trying to stop his voice from shaking from the sheer thrill of the situation, hoping that his tone wouldn’t sound strained or forced or anything. This needed to be perfect.

“Hm. Haven’t seen you before. I would say it’s a pleasure to meet you, but if you’re doing what I think you’re doing, that would be a lie.”

His new aquaintance jolted, the glitches that covered his body intensifying as he turned around abruptly to try and see who the intruder was, and why they had disturbed him. It didn’t seem like it was working, since his sockets were completely covered in ERROR signs. Ink payed no attention to the evident fury on his face, instead choosing to focus on the bizarre blue marks that run down from his eyes, like strange fluorescent tears, the same colour as the strings that hung down from them.

Ink shuddered at the thought of the man pulling those strings out of his eyesockets. Ouch. Even he, with his minuscule knowledge of pain, understood that the eyes were sensitive. The whole scene was feeling more and more like a horror movie as time went on, and Ink wasn’t exactly opposed to that. It just made things that little bit more thrilling, like he could be a part of his own grand story, like he had dreamed of for so long.

“Who are you,” the man growled, “And what do you want?” His voice was just as strange as he was, his speech glitching just as much as his form, jumping octaves and repeating words like a broken record, like multiple different voices were all trying to finish each others’ sentences. Damn, what happened to him?

Ink shifted his weight to his other foot. “I want to know if you’re the one who caused this mess.”

Glitchy Guy, as Ink had inernally dubbed him, blinked, most likely trying to clear his eyes of the ERROR signs. A smile began to appear on his teeth, forcing his mouth into a slightly manic grin. “Of course it was, no one else here is taking out the trash, heh.”

Ink hummed, his eyes shifting rapidly through a variety of cool hues. This was new.

“Well, if what you’re saying is true, you’re actively disrupting the script of this AU, so that makes you-“

“Wait.”

The ERROR signs had now fully left Glitchy Guy’s eyes, revealing mismatched eyelights that Ink couldn’t help but stare at. One of the eyes couldn’t open fully and the light was completely white, making Ink wonder if it had been injured in some way, but the other was all blazing yellows and blues, like an out of control fire. Both sockets were a dull red, the same colour as the dried blood on his fingers. Ink found it strangely beautiful, almost like he was looking at a painting instead of a living, breathing person, and if he thought about this man’s colour combinations for any longer he would probably end up being killed for staring for too long. This guy didn’t look like he appreciated much attention, especially from someone he might percieve as hostile. Which wasn’t entirely innaccurate. Ink just wanted to ask questions first and fight later.

Ink blinked in confusion, tilting his head to the side. “Oh?”

“How the hell did you get here. You’re not from here, right?”

“I mean, duh. You did a pretty good job at trashing this place.” Ink scoffed at the question. People could be really dense sometimes. Did this guy honestly think that Ink was from the universe he had so thoroughly wrecked?

Glitchy Guy’s speech took on a more defensive tone. “So, who are you then? And how did you get here?” His eyes narrowed, an expression of disdain colouring his features.

Ink smirked. Oh, he was so fucking excited to see this guy’s reaction. Judging by his questions, it didn’t look like he had ever met anyone else not tied to a world either. Maybe it was just the two of them who existed like this.

“The name’s Ink, Protector of Creation. I can travel through universes, and I’m assuming you can too.”

For a few beats, Glitchy Guy seemed unaffected, like he was still processing the statement. Then his working eye widened, and his face contorted into an expression of surprise, then anger, and finally something that looked like a sick sort of satisfaction. His proud grin returned as he stepped a little closer to Ink.

“Well, Protector, you’ve been doing a pretty lousy job, huh? I’ve been on a roll recently. Can’t even count how many anomalies I’ve destroyed.” He held his head high, evidently happy with his achievements. Ink narrowed his eyes,slightly annoyed by this attitude to such a task.

“And that’s why I’m here now. Don’t expect things to be so easy from now on.” Ink beamed, tilting his head to the side in an effort to look obnoxiously adorable.

This apparently succeeded, judging by the way that Glitchy Guy brought a hand to his temple like he was trying to soothe a headache, which he may well have been doing. Ink’s incessant rambling and irritating attitude were enough to make anyone need to lie down. “Tsch. I don’t have time for this.” He turned from Ink and flicked his hand, and a portal slashed through the atmosphere. The space it led to somehow felt even more empty than their current environment, and Ink liked it even less.

Shaking himself from the focus on the portal, Ink cleared his throat. “May I ask one more question before you go?”

The man slowly looked back at him, his former expression replaced with one of exahusation and exasperation. His glitching had also picked up again.

“What.”

Ink decided not to waste any time annoying this guy more. “I’ve already told you my name. So, Destroyer, what’s yours? I don’t want to have to internally refer to you as ‘Glitchy Guy’ any more, that’s just dumb.” Ink smiled excitedly, causing the man to roll his eyes again.

There was a brief pause, and then he spoke. His voice was quiet, as if he was a little nervous or even self conscious.

“Error. And don’t you forget it.”

Ink grinned, not to mock this time, but genuinely. “Oh, I probably will, my memory’s shit. You might have to remind me next time we meet.”

“Bold of you to assume there will be a next time.”

“You’ve caught my attention, and now I know how to watch for you, I might pop in and say ‘hi’ a little more. Should be fun, eh?”

Error groaned. “God, please don’t. Just leave me in peace, okay? I don’t need your company.”

Ink waved his hand dismissively. “Well, I don’t listen to people, so Imma ignore that.”

“Cool. Bye.” Deciding not to say any more in case Ink kept him there longer, Error stepped into the portal, and, after turning to glare at Ink one last time, was gone.

Black paint immediately erupted out of Ink’s mouth, which he then wiped with his scarf.

So, ‘Error’, huh. A literal glitch in the code, given life and form. How strange!

He knew that he’d definitely run into Error more. After all, their goals seemed to be polar opposites, and Error looked like a pretty violent kind of person. Ink didn’t really like to fight with other people unless he had to, be it was seeming more and more like he would probably have to in this situation. He couldn’t let was Error was doing continue. Still, Error was an inhabitant of the Multiverse, which meant that Ink probably should protect him too. It wasn’t like the other situations where a simple killing would sort everything out - Error seemed stronger, more resilient, more tactical. And he had no visible script of his own, so what if he was doing his thing for the same reason Ink was protecting?

And, okay, Ink had to admit, he was interested. It wasn’t every day that he found someone a little like himself.

Shaking his head to clear his thoughts, he decided to head back to the Doodle Sphere. There was nothing for him here anymore, and he had to prepare himself for the next time he met Error. After all, he doubted it would be friendly.